


Solitary Trial

by SolainRhyo



Series: Savage Trust [3]
Category: Alien vs Predator (2004)
Genre: F/M, Lex in hiding, Other, Scar finds Lex again, Traumatized Lex, one shot smut, post Sacrifice Theory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:23:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8907100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolainRhyo/pseuds/SolainRhyo
Summary: Lex survived the trails on Bouvetoya physically intact, but in the aftermath she had fragmented. At first the hunted and then the hunter, she also had to contend with an unwanted, unexpected attraction for Scar, the predator that had become her companion as they'd both fought for their lives. Ultimately they'd parted ways and she'd returned to a normal human life. What haunted her nights and her dreams, however, was anything but human. In an attempt to preserve her sanity, Lex isolated herself, hoping to find salvation in the remote wilderness. Her solitude won't last for long, however - Scar's not quite finished with her yet.(This can be viewed as a companion piece to Sacrifice Theory. Smut within - don't read if you don't like.)





	1. The long dark

**.x.**

They say what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. I don’t know if it’s true, though if anyone should know it would be me. Through some unbelievable and perhaps cruel twist of fate I lived through circumstances that by all right should have killed me. I survived against odds that should have been insurmountable but weren’t; I did what I’m certain no other human of my era has ever done and fought alongside one alien race while battling against another. I was alive after all of this, yes, and in one piece for that matter, but had I become stronger? Risen triumphant from the hell I’d been embroiled in like a phoenix of legend, shedding my old form in order to make way for the new?

I didn’t feel remade. I didn’t feel reborn. In the days and the weeks after Bouvetoya—all that time spent in the hospital, and after that in courtrooms and offices fabricating a story so intricate it surprised me—I came to a realization that I _had_ changed. My nights consisted of periods of broken sleep and nightmares. I had thought perhaps that once everything had been settled and the Weyland Corporation finally lost interest in me and my story that my life would regain some semblance of normalcy, and through that I could begin to feel like me again. But after the corporation stopped calling, and when the doctors told me they didn’t need to see me anymore and that they had done all they could, my life remained in a strange sort of limbo. My stories had been believed, the Weyland father and son deaths explained away as the casualties of natural disasters brought on by human error. The company paid me for my services and even covered the cost of my hospital stay, and with the small fortune I abruptly found myself in possession of I did what it was I had to do. I disappeared.

My job had always been something I did at my leisure, leading expeditions as I saw fit, and so it was easy for me to step away from that aspect. Harder to separate myself from people I knew—Ana and Cora had in the days after my second return to the _Piper Maru_ become almost family to me. I couldn’t explain it to them, my reason for needing seclusion and isolation, and in the end though I tried I know they just could not understand. And so I let them believe what they wanted to believe, that I was working my way through post-traumatic stress, that I would return when I had come to terms with everything. Easier to let them think that than try to detail out just _why_ I had to go: that every day, every minute I felt as though I were drifting uncontrollably away from where I was supposed to be, wherever _that_ was; that whenever there were shadows around me I searched them until my eyes ached for irrational fear of monsters that only I knew existed; that I simply felt as though my entire being had been shattered and key pieces of myself lost forever.

With the money I returned to the country I’d called home, forgoing the urban centers and settling in an area I recalled fondly from my youth. In a place called Blue River I found and bought a home. Nestled securely within the cradle of the Canadian Rockies, I lived twenty minutes from anything even remotely resembling civilization. I had hoped that, surrounded by nature’s majesty and secluding myself that maybe, just maybe I could start the person I once had been. My body would never be the same. The scars I carried were innumerable and also served as everyday reminders to what I needed to forget. They didn’t bother me, however, for somewhere along the way I’d begun regarding scars more as proof of my survival through tribulation more than unsightly mars. It was something almost inexplicable, this affliction of mine, but I knew what was causing it, and I knew that I could never erase the reason for it from my mind.

And so, for a long time, I simply existed.

The weeks spanned into months and I drifted through them like an echo of a person, pretending to be whole but unable to make it completely real. When I was around people, which wasn’t often, I smiled and I laughed and I functioned as I would have once not so long ago. But when I was alone I spent countless hours in thought or reading books whose words I just couldn’t seem to absorb. The warm Albertan summer gave way to the slow, gradual grasp of cool autumn, which in turn led to the season I irrationally dreaded. As the sun sank beneath the looming peaks rising up all around my home, as dusk descended in shades of indigo and violet, I stood at my window one night and watched heavy snowflakes start their descent, unable to ease the tight, anxious feeling in my chest. The next day winter had arrived, and I found myself imprisoned in a world of white upon white and grey, and I knew then that I would never again be the same.

The snow and ice brought with them unwelcome recollections, and I discovered then that I had developed an extreme aversion to cold. I left my home only when necessity dictated, afraid of the world beyond my door enveloped in blankets of white. The nights were the worst. Afraid to sleep for fear of dreaming I would doze in a chair in front of the fire, rousing now and then to keep the flames fed. The mornings would come and I would continue to play out my parody of life: eating, drinking, breathing, but never feeling normal. Never feeling whole. When people would phone I would keep up the pretense of being happy, of being the same Lex I had once been, and when I hung up I would stare at the phone and try and remember how it had felt to be the way I was. Like wisps of smoke on tempest winds those shreds of memory would be pulled from me, and I would revert to the pensive, despairing state that had descended on me and seemed unlikely to ever leave.

It was mid-January before I grew sick enough of the confines of my house to venture outside. Christmas had come and gone and I had remained in Blue River, lying to anyone who had asked about my plans. The hollowness within me had grown to the point where it felt as though it would swallow me entirely. As I stepped out into the frigid cold, wincing at the biting chill of the air as I inhaled, I realized I had become as barren as the landscape surrounding me. I tried not to think about it and instead began to walk, an aimless wandering that eventually brought me to the rise of a large hill overlooking the heavily forested river valley. And there under the shadow of snow-ridden mountains and a sun that shone with a harsh, haggard light I knelt in the thick snow and cried for so many reasons, and all of them I wished I didn't understand.

I forsook the chair that night for my bed, hoping that perhaps my lapse on the hillside had drained me of the negativity that haunted me. I awoke in the dead of night covered in cold sweat, fighting against blankets and sheets that had wound themselves around me and kept me imprisoned. When finally I’d freed myself—ripping a sheet in the frenzy—I sat there in the dark, not knowing I was crying until the warm moisture fell from my face to land on my arm. And as I raised a shaking hand to brush away whatever other tears would follow, I heard a sound that stopped my heart and stilled my breath.

I lunged then for the bedside lamp, turning it on but at the same time knocking it from the night table. It clattered loudly to the floor. But I didn’t care. I was standing, my eyes raking the now dimly illuminated confines of my room for the source of that low, raspy trilling I’d heard. Only shadows met my gaze, and further inspection of those shadows revealed nothing. Still I persisted, running through the house and turning on every light, searching every corner, every nook, for what I both dreaded and wished for. Only when I realized I was completely and utterly alone, only when I felt both dismay and relief pour over me, did I realize this was the most I had felt in a very, very long time.

When I returned to bed, I slept soundly until dawn.

**.x.**

I didn’t dwell on what happened that night, although I dearly wanted to. The implications of both scenarios—whether what I had heard had been real or not—could and most likely would consume all the rational parts of my mind. And so I pushed that memory along with the myriad of emotions it brought with it into the furthest reaches of my mind and locked it there. One day led to another and then another, and it wasn’t long until I had convinced myself that nothing had happened that night other than dreams filled with nameless terrors.

I started to take long walks during the day. Some of my aversion to the snow and cold had faded, it seemed. Winter had a beauty to it, a harsh, unforgiving splendor that was entirely its own and it was that that I had learned to love from an early age and it was that that had beckoned me to work in the coldest, most remote regions of the world. It seemed I was regaining my love of the season and all it brought slowly, because the fact that I could be stirred by what I saw was heartening. The evenings were still trials and while some nights I would sleep, others I spent huddled in the chair before the fire, willing the glow and the heat to take from me demons both of this world and not. My daily sojourns cleared my head, gave me a little of myself back. I began to look forward to them. I hoped that whatever internal, spiritual wounds still afflicting me were finally healing. I felt a little more human, a little more in touch with the shadow me that had existed for the past few months only in memory.

On a day close to the middle of February I changed my routine, taking another a game trail through the forested back quarter of my land. It was unusually warm; a Chinook had come during the night and brought with it a strong melting wind, which carried with it the scents of impending spring. The sun at its zenith was bright and its heat I could feel for the first time in a long time. I strode through the trees feeling more at ease than I had in ages. The tall, thick pine and spruce loomed over me, their boughs laden with heavy snow made heavier by the Chinook thaw, and their smell I could detect with every deep breath I took. It was peaceful here, and even the sounds of the wildlife—the chirping calls of native birds, the distant bellowing of cows belonging to a farmer some miles away, the occasional swift rattle of a squirrel—were calm, soothing. Almost easy to forget who I was and why I had secluded myself here; almost easy to forget why it was I walked in a world full of only animals and nature; almost easy to pretend I was simply a woman in an uncomplicated world.

Almost.

The squirrel fell silent first, which I barely noted, and the birds ceased their calls not long after. Even the faint sounds of cows had faded. And standing alone then amidst ancient trees made young by the mountains surrounding them, I came to a halt in the sudden, eerie stillness. Wind brushed with gentle whispers through the boughs of the evergreens, and for a long tense moment I remained absolutely still. I shook my head finally at my silliness and snorted softly, but the racing of my heart betrayed my agitation. I knew there were a million reasons why the animals had stopped their noise, why the forest had fallen quiet. I began to walk again, my footsteps crunching through the hard crust of snow. Perhaps they'd all become silent because of my intrusion into their realm or perhaps they had spotted some woodland predator and fallen still for fear of their lives—

If I hadn’t looked up then, if I hadn’t almost stumbled over a root hidden by the thick blanket of white, I never would have seen it—that fluidic, rippling, displacement of air that made me feel in one mere instant as though the ground beneath my feet had crumbled away. My momentum drove me hard to my knees; stunned, I hadn’t reacted in time to catch myself. My eyes were fastened on the watery apparition as it moved, distorting the trunks of the trees in its passage; between one blink and the next it was gone. I knelt there unmoving, unthinking, until the icy wetness of the snow melting beneath me drove me shakily to my feet once more. I pivoted on the spot, my eyes racing about in a frantic, desperate search for what couldn’t be, but undeniably was. I saw nothing, and as I replayed what I had just witnessed over and over again in my head I realized that of the emotions I was experiencing in fast, furious succession, fear wasn’t the one overwhelming me.

It was hope.

Hope that I wasn’t imagining things. Hope that I wasn’t going mad. Hope that maybe, just maybe, things would now fall into place and I could gain the closure, the final certainty, that I needed. Lost in my turmoil, I didn’t move again until I heard it—that low, primal trill that made my breath cease and froze the blood in my veins. And then the air some seven feet before me wavered and something else bled into existence, and when all was said and done I stood face to face with my once hunter and repeat savior. He looked different. It took me a moment to realize that much of the armor I’d grown familiar with him wearing was gone. His broad shoulders, massive chest and thick, trunk-like thighs were exposed almost completely to the air, but for the mesh covering them. Mask in place, long tresses spilling over his shoulders and down his back, I was reminded instantly of the first time I’d ever encountered him, this fierce humanoid that had been hell-bent on my demise but had relented and became instead my companion, my comrade, my mentor.

I swallowed hard then and found that every feeling I’d though I’d lost had returned in full force. Tears prickled at my eyes and I didn’t know why, nor did I know why half of me wanted to turn and run, run as fast as I could back to my house and lock myself within. I didn’t know why it suddenly felt so hard to breathe or why my legs trembled so badly that it became an effort just to stand in one place. All I knew was reality: myself and the predator before me. When he cocked his head to one side in that oh-so-familiar gesture I made a noise that was half-laugh, half-sob, and when he spoke to me in a voice that belonged to a man I once knew, it was all I could do to bottle everything up inside me and not collapse.

“Lex,” said a dead man’s voice, and I smiled faintly.

“You found me.” I said.

**.x.**


	2. Our reunion, delayed

**.x.**

Time could have stopped then—the world could have halted in its rotation, the sun fallen from the sky, and neither cataclysm would have diverted my attention from the creature standing before me. Of the millions of thoughts and memories swirling in frantic disharmony in my head, two things became very clear—one of the beings that haunted my nightmares stood before me, and I was not afraid. I opened my mouth to speak but closed it again, finding no words. After a moment of struggling with myself, with the simultaneous desires to both approach Scar and run headlong away from him I shook my head with a frustrated noise. He hadn’t moved, except for the flexing of his fingers, and I wondered then what he was waiting for. A second later it dawned on me—he was waiting for the same thing he’d waited for all those times during our trials beneath Bouvetoya.

He was waiting for me to decide.

Decide whether I wanted to run, decide whether I was going to panic, decide whether to go to him and touch him as I wanted to. And suddenly I was angry, angry at being made to face such a choice _now_ , when I wasn’t whole, when I wasn’t sure about anything. It was anger that drove me towards him, every step I took breaking loudly through the hard crust of the snow. He waited for me, an unmoving giant in the midst of clusters of pine and spruce. I stopped several paces from him, safely out of reach, and finally found the voice that had deserted me.

“ _Why?_ ” I asked, balking inwardly because I already knew the answer. He had come for _me_ , though for what specific reason was something I didn’t know and wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Scar remained silent and still. His inaction was unnerving. Nothing would happen here, I knew, unless I initiated it. And so it was I took the last few steps I needed to be directly before him. We observed each other in silence for a moment before I said softly, hesitantly, “Well?”

His head tilted, a gesture I had long since come to associate with curiosity or speculation. When he reached out with one hand to cuff me lightly on the chin I was irrationally relieved because his behavior to that point had been alien, unfamiliar, making me wonder what had changed. I was beginning to have an inkling as to what actually had changed ... It was another moment of what seemed to be deliberation on his behalf before he moved again, stepping away from me. I frowned, confused, when he lifted one hand and pointed back the way I’d originally come. I shook my head, but he repeated the gesture, finally adding in a voice that I didn’t recognize, “See you soon.”

A promise that he would come for me? Why had he been out here, anyways? Even as I wondered that I knew the answer—he had been looking out for me. Perhaps I hadn’t been meant to see him, or perhaps I had. I was mulling this over when abruptly the shroud of his invisibility coated his form like water; I watched as he took several steps away and then he was lost from my sight. Instantly I was furious; how _dare_ he? Why show himself and then hide again? Why did he follow me through a forest bereft of anything more harmful than a log hidden beneath snow waiting to snare me? Had he done this only to gauge my reaction, to see whether I would flee or accept his presence?

“Damn you!” I spat then. Turmoil was something I really didn’t need, but now I had it in excess. I spared one last glance in the area where I’d last seen him before spinning on my heel and marching back the way I’d come. Was he following me? Ghosting through the trees somewhere around me, ever the vigilant guard? I didn’t know, and in my anger didn’t want to know and so I refused to look behind me. Once I was back within my house I closed the door behind me and rested against it as my confusion, my fear, my anger and my irrational happiness at seeing Scar again vied for superiority within me. With a sigh I opened the door again and gazed out into the glaring white of the late afternoon, searching until my eyes watered. I saw nothing, heard nothing, but I also knew somehow that he wasn’t out there. Not yet, at least. I recalled then what he’d told me in another person’s words, and with another sigh I closed the door. He’d show himself later, I knew. All I could do until then was wait.

The day drew to a close, bringing with it a night clear and bright. As the evening wore on into the wee hours I waited in my traditional chair by the fire, but finally weariness that even the implications Scar’s impending appearance could not stave off wore at me, and I stood then and moved into my room. I slipped beneath blankets and stared at the ceiling for a long time, every creak and whisper made by my settling house prompting me to wonder if my visitor had arrived. Eventually my tiredness won out, and between one breath and another I was asleep.

**IXI**

Dreaming again—ebony monsters that moved with spider-like grace clustered in around me; Reed Weyland’s visage swam before me in familiar and frightening detail. Here he was again, standing before me with the spear, and I screamed as he brought it down, as I felt it puncture easily my skin, as the barbs at the tip caught and sliced me from the inside out—

It was almost as if I was physically expelled from sleep. I heard my cry trail away as my eyes opened, but also became aware of something else in that instant that gave birth to another sound of fear—a weight on my abdomen. When my eyes found the source of that weight I sucked in a startled breath as my entire body stiffened. Scar, devoid of his mask and illuminated by the light spilling in from the hall, stood over me; he had placed his hand on the flat of my stomach, as though to restrain me, to keep me down through the course of my dreamtime thrashing. Still riding the last vestiges of the emotions from my nightmare, I stared up at the hunter and wondered wildly at the fact that he’d chosen to wake me from my torment.

Seconds ticked by; my heart labored so strongly that it was hard to breathe. I was acutely aware of Scar’s touch, of the fact that only the thin fabric of the tank top I wore for sleeping separated his flesh from mine. I could feel the pebbly texture of his hand even through the shirt, and when those fingers flexed suddenly I couldn’t help the startled sound that escaped me. We both became still, statues unmoving but for our breathing. The air between us was tangible with things better left unrealized, but it was too late fro that—Scar’s very presence here in this room, the fact that he had returned and shown himself to me, both were indicative of all that I was so afraid to realize.

I whispered, because I didn’t trust my voice not to break, because I couldn’t stand the silence any longer, “You can let me up now.”

A soft chitter answered me after a moment, but he didn’t remove his hand; I had already known he wouldn’t. Instead he slid it upwards, over my abdomen and then the curve of my breasts in a slow exploration. And it was there he stopped, head tilting slightly to the side; I knew then that he could feel the frantic pounding of my heart beneath his palm. I couldn’t breathe. It felt as though I was drowning beneath the weight of my fear, anxiety and something else—expectation. I stared up at the unique fierceness of his features and felt something almost like delirium grow within me. I once thought I’d come to terms with how I felt about him, but everything seemed suddenly very surreal. His hand moved again, sliding up to my neck, and then his fingers found unswervingly the mark on my cheek. He brushed over it once before pulling away completely; I sat up at his withdrawal, disappointed, relieved, and completely bewildered. When he reached for me again and grasped my wrist I let him, and when he tugged I unthinkingly slipped from my bed to follow. He led me out of the room, back into the den where light shone night after night as a beacon for me. As I crossed the threshold he pulled hard on my arm, twisting me around so that I stood before him; he then released my wrist. I watched him expectantly, apprehensively, could feel the intensity of his amber gaze. For a long time, it seemed, we stood thus; I knew he was studying me, but why? I studied in turn, observing the body now bare of all but a thick belt and metal codpiece, the face, hidden normally behind a mask, that had never frightened me, the mark etched into his forehead …

And I knew then what he found so fascinating—the similar marks on my body, the imperfectly healed wounds. I stood stock still under his visual inspection, wishing I was wearing something more substantial then the tank top while at the same time experiencing a small frission of anticipation and exhilaration. His head had tilted to one side; I shivered under the impersonal gaze of that impassionate mask. When he began to move, slowly circling around me, I clamped down on the urge to run, to hide, and simply stood. He was behind me when I heard his almost inaudible trill; I half turned my head to look at him but froze when I felt the touch of his fingers. I knew what scar they traced; acid blood from the alien queen had once bathed my back, leaving my flesh marred and twisted. Once upon a time they would have been repulsive to me, an imperfection, but now they were simply and foremost a testament to life—I had survived against something not of this world. I had thought scars rendered your flesh insensitive, but as one of his talons lightly scratched the edge of one, a shudder wracked my spine. I sucked in a startled breath and moved away from him, away from his touch.

He snarled softly at me as I turned to face him, indicating he didn’t appreciate the distance I was trying to put between us. And abruptly my sense of unease, of anticipation, grew. I could have done many things in that moment, but I opted to do the one that scared me the most. With fumbling fingers I gripped the hem of my shirt and pulled it swiftly over my head before letting it fall to the ground at my feet. I waited then, terrified at what I’d done and what he may do, resisting the urge to cover my exposed skin. Finally I turned my back to him, inviting him to continue with what he’d been doing before I’d shied. This time he touched my marred flesh in a slow, thorough perusal, fingers tracing the twisting lines in sequence. He stepped around me to examine the evidence of other wounds, lifting both my arms to touch the long vertical ridges left by the claws of the aliens. He laid one palm flat against the large, rough surface of what had once been a puncture wound in my shoulder and touched with the other hand more claw wounds on my ribs. His demeanor was that of curiosity, almost, were it not for the tension I saw evident in the lines of his body. When he’d finished he tugged at the drawstring of the loose pants I wore.

The meaning was obvious; I took a deep breath and shimmied quickly out of them, kicking them away once they were off. I felt a furious blush coming on and focused my eyes then on the wood of my floor; being naked in front of Scar was exactly as unnerving as I’d expected it to be.

**.x.**


	3. The only choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another warning: predator/human sex in this chapter. Don't read if you're not into it.

I thought he’d continue his examination of my scars. Instead a quiet trill left him, prompting me to lift my gaze. His hands went to the belt he wore, made of something that looked like leather but I knew was not. With a swift, deft motion he unfastened it, and rather then let it fall he set it down carefully. Codpiece gone, I now found myself faced with the hunter in all his entirety. He was completely and undeniably male; the evidence of said maleness rested between his thighs, a phallus quite similar in appearance to that of a human man. Arousal, apparently, was also similar between our species, and for the span of several heartbeats my gaze was fixed on the rigidity of his member, of the girth and length that while impressive was not as monstrous as I’d half feared.

Scar didn’t move under my scrutiny. He stood before me naked as I stood before him, his bearing proud, almost regal. It struck me then as my eyes traveled eagerly, anxiously over every aspect of his body how very primal he was, how fierce and how alien he appeared with a body honed to prime condition by a life, a society that dictated strength and honor above anything else. Without the mask to hide away his true features I found my gaze draw to his own, his amber eyes intense in their regard unblinking, unwavering. One of his lower mandibles moved slightly as a soft, short chitter left him. I could only stare at him, at those eyes so inhuman that carried in them despite that fact intentions I could recognize, at the body of a hunter, a warrior, marked with scars from innumerable battles that were testaments to his prowess and power. And then, in the fragile stillness that had fallen between us and over the erratic thunder of my heart, I came to a sudden, undeniable realization.

I wanted him.

Wanted the touch of those hands, capable of incredible violence but never towards me. Wanted to feel his skin, rough, pebbly and so not human, against my own. Wanted to know the intrigue of what he offered—and I had no doubt now about what he was indeed offering. Wanted to know the driving force behind the act that had brought us both here—his marking me once upon a time as his own.

When he reached for me, I met him willingly.

His massive hands spanned the length of my waist carefully and purposefully, testing my reaction. I didn’t hesitate; I placed one palm flat on his chest and lifted up with the fingers of my other hand to touch the scar on his forehead, the sister mark to my own. His head tilted then, as though my reaction was not what he’d expected; I almost smiled, because my reaction wasn’t what I had expected either.

He moved suddenly with that speed I knew he possessed but was always surprised by. He lifted me up and moved swiftly, and then I felt the wall at my back, cold and firm. He pinned me there, positioning his knee between my legs, shifting me so that I rode his thigh. The texture of his skin against the more sensitive areas of my own was startling, exhilarating, but I wasn’t given time to react on it. One of his hands curved around my neck, his thumb roughly running over the mark on my cheek; the other grazed a trail from my chin downwards, brushing hard over my nipples, scratching at my stomach before coming to rest at the juncture of my thighs. The breath caught in my throat and every muscle I had suddenly tensed; he stilled then, his eyes holding my own captive, reading my reaction and interpreting it.

One finger entered me, eliciting a gasp. The penetration wasn’t gentle, but it was carefully measured; he was mindful of his talons, of the fact he could very easily rend my flesh. The withdrawal was slow, torturously so, and I caught my lower lip between my teeth at the sensation that had very quickly transitioned from being uncomfortable to raw pleasure. Inserting another finger, widening my body around him, he bent his head to mine with a thick, throaty trill. My eyes found his and were thus held; within me his fingers moved and I made a choked sound. His face was now a hairsbreadth from my own, and as he flexed his ensconced fingers, as I raggedly sucked in a breath his lower mandibles grazed either side of my face, his upper mandibles brushing against my lips. It was, I knew instinctively, a very intense, very intimate gesture.

His other hand moved from my neck then, tracing a path to one breast. The feeling of his talons raking over my nipple coupled with the slow, sinuous movement of his fingers incited the blood in my veins to race and threw my mind into utter and complete chaos. When he removed his fingers I clutched at his upper arms in dismay; both his hands moved to my waist, encircling it. He bent slightly, lowering his head again so that I felt his breath against my neck. He inhaled deeply, mandibles brushing at my flesh. His thumbs were rubbing concentric circles at my hips, and again while his touch wasn’t gentle it stopped just outside of being rough. I didn’t mind; _this_ was who he was, what he was. It didn’t matter to me. I wanted him for all the things that made him not human.

He exhaled and then I felt pain, sharp, jolting—he had bitten me. And as I stiffened in reaction he was shifting me, positioning me—I felt the hard, swollen length of him brushing against my thighs—

And then he was inside of me with one swift and seamless plunge. I was wet and still it was slightly painful, a discomfort that faded the moment he withdrew and thrust again. He raised his head, moving his face even with mine, and the skin on my neck throbbed from the bite. It was a mark of possession, I knew, of ownership, but I didn’t care. My hands tightened reflexively on his forearms as his fluidic penetration and withdrawal quickened, became rougher. I could feel the odd texture of his phallus within me and the friction it caused as it slid rhythmically to and fro made it very hard for me to breathe. I wasn’t alone in my pleasure; Scar’s breathing had deepened, quickened, and as the rocking of his hips became slightly wild a guttural, drawn out growl reverberated throughout his entire form.

I felt the pleasure begin to crest; my fingers curled with the intensity, my nails digging into his skin. As if sensing my impending release he pushed himself as deep as he could, pulling me closer at the same time with his hands on my waist until my entire being was centered on the hard, unrelenting, throbbing length of him buried almost to my core. He held himself there, flexing, and as the pleasure broke, as I rode the exquisite, powerful sensation I could not tear my eyes from the warm amber of his own. As the final shudders rolled over me he ducked his head and withdrew only slightly before pushing back in again. He growled loudly, lowly, and I felt the tremors wrack his frame as he came hard inside me. He kept me pinned for long moments after; we were both completely still but for our fast, mingled breathing. His mandibles brushed once more at my cheeks, my lips and then he pulled away, sliding free of my body and setting me down carefully. I leaned against the wall, weak-kneed and breathless and more exhilarated, more satisfied than I could ever recall being before. I watched dazedly as he knelt before me, as he reached up and tugged me down to him. He probed the bite on my neck with one finger, his other arm curling around my midsection. When his eyes returned to mine I could read the challenge there; and as he emitted a deep trill I knew he was waiting to see if I would deny the significance of the small wound, of his mark of claim over me. I shook my head but did nothing else; he touched his forehead to mine after another moment of speculation, his mandibles framing my face.

I knew what had just transpired here was more than sex. I knew that by accepting our union, by accepting the mark of his teeth on my neck I was also accepting the fact that I belonged to him—I was his in the most absolute sense of the word. Such a thing would have bothered me once, but I _knew_ him, had fought alongside him, had tended to him when wounded, had bonded with him through hellish trials that both of us had narrowly survived. We had been tied together through all of that, and his coming here had been, I knew, for the sole purpose of discovering whether I accepted being thus bound or whether I was against it. He had given me ample opportunity to back down; _I_ was the one who had decided to further twine myself to him, completely giving myself in the process. It was what I’d wanted, what I’d needed, though I’d deluded myself for a long time against that truth.

He chittered then, the sound the way I remembered it—open, almost amused. He coiled a length of my hair around his finger and pulled; I smiled in answer. When he stood and lifted me up with him I wondered only for a moment what was to happen next before shaking my head.

It really didn’t matter. From this point on wherever he would go, I would follow.

**.x.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in 2006 and it was one of the first sex scenes I'd ever written. I had an enormous amount of difficulty writing it, mostly because I wasn't very adept at finding words to describe the naughty bits (particularly Scar's). I know there are errors and that it might not flow very well, but I've long since come to terms with it. 
> 
> If you've come this far, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!


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